


And Then There Are REASONS

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [63]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Discipline, Flashbacks, M/M, Parental Discipline, Training Hunters, Wincest - Freeform, cabin in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 63: Masterpiece.  Sam continues to struggle with his psychic powers, and Dean faces some of John’s famed consequences, for mistakes while training. Oh Dean. Mention of Mathieu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then There Are REASONS

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

John settled the kitchen to his liking, and then turned to his oldest son, who was standing by the workbench the weapons bags were kept on, shifting from foot to foot. Good. Kid knew he was in trouble then.

“Get over here.” Dean ambled on over, and John missed the days where the same command would have had the boy practically translocating himself. “I want to know what’s going on in your head, boy.” He didn’t get an answer, just a shrug, and he peered at Dean for a moment, wondering if he and Sam had changed bodies, somehow. His voice grew quieter. “You can speak up, or I can just decide on the consequences of the actions I see.”

Dean shrugged. “Dad, we train all the time. It’s not like Sam and I slack on it.”

He stared at his son. “Dean, we’re about to go on a hunt – the last hunt in the woods, you screwed up pretty bad. You want to tell me you think you don’t need your reflexes as sharp as possible?”

Another shrug. John felt disoriented again. He ran a critical eye over Dean’s form. His son wasn’t meeting his eye. Holding something back. No good, that. He stepped forward, menacing, and grabbed the kid’s arm, and even that didn’t produce the usual eye contact and plea.

“You will tell me just where this training op went south for you and why, or I will have you bareassed over my knee on the receiving end of a hairbrush.” 

More silence met his request. Damn. Contrary to popular belief, paddling his boys was not his favorite thing to do – especially in situations like this. The problem lay in the fact that it was the only solution when a boy clammed up like this – his father had done the same with him years ago, and there’d been nights in the trenches when he and the men had discussed how they’d become the sort of men they were, at their father’s hands. One C.O., on watch with John late at night, had laughed at John’s embarrassment at revealing that info about his childhood and teenage years, spanked not but a month before he shipped out. 

_”Johnny,”_ he’d said, _“Been at this a long time now, boy. And I can tell you, the boys whose daddies paddled their hides and kept them honest, those are the ones who stay alive, those are the ones who go far. Just my opinion, boy, but there it is.”_ Mary hadn’t objected to spanking, either, he still remembered the first time he came home to hearing a four year old Dean howling because Mary had spanked him for leaving the house without permission, and his shock when she’d asked him to spank Dean again to drive the lesson home. Not that you spanked a four year old all that hard, it was all embarrassment and noise at that point, and sometimes he wished Dean were still that age again, his sunshine boy.

“One,” was the only thing he said to the tall young man standing in front of him now, though. And then, “two.” He felt some disbelief, here. Counting was usually surefire. A final “three” fell into the air, and he tightened his grip on Dean’s arm slightly. Fine. Time for a little more psychological warfare here. “Go get my hairbrush.” Dean’s wide eyes stared disbelievingly.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, tone matching his expression. John hadn’t taken a hairbrush to either of the boys since they were in high school. Their father next to always used his hand, except for serious transgressions, and he hadn’t thought –

“You will go and bring that brush back to me NOW. If I have to do it myself, you’ll feel it on your backside before your very early bedtime every night this week, little boy.” John’s voice was cold, and Dean finally moved. John resisted putting his face in his hands as he sat down on the chair he’d pulled back from the table. He had a job to do, much as he wanted to shirk his duty as a father he wouldn’t.

Dean eventually shuffled up, the large brush loose in his hand. John jerked Dean around, taking the brush, and undoing Dean’s pants, yanking them to the boy’s knees. Another quick move had the disbelieving boy over John’s knee, where he quickly swept the protective cotton of the boxers down as well. 

“Last chance, Dean,” he said, hairbrush in hand, waiting quietly. He counted to sixty in his head, waiting for anything from Dean, and then laid in with the hairbrush, fast and even swats covering the boy’s backside from the top of the cheeks to just below the crease of his buttocks and thighs. Dean was squirming by the time John began to repeat the pattern, and at last he yelled.

“Fine!” John paused, and Dean swiped an angry hand over his face. He felt like a goddamn wimp, couldn’t even take a spanking from his father, dammit. “Sam was tired.”

John resumed paddling again. “Not good enough, son. You could have told me. Why not say something!”

“OW! I thought – I thought-“ he couldn’t think, really, under the vicious sting the brush was leaving behind. John paused again, recognizing the frustration in the frantic tone. 

“You thought what.”

“I thought maybe Sam would give in and say something if I-“

“You WHAT?” The bellow came at Dean from both ends of the cabin, from both John and Sam.

“Sam, enough from you. We’ll talk in a bit.” He had to give his younger boy credit, the kid hadn’t come out of the bedroom, and undoubtedly the sounds of the thorough spanking weren’t muffled by the thin inner walls. John tightened his grip on the brush, satisfied by the continued silence, and laid into Dean’s backside more firmly than before, making sure the swats overlapped one another. He was determined to leave a masterpiece behind, for Dean to sit on and think about for the next few days. 

After another round across his boy’s backside, he paused again, listening to Dean try and control his breathing. “We talked about this before we left Mathieu’s. On a hunt, the only person you are responsible for out there is YOU, unless I tell you otherwise. You are not responsible for me, unless I say so. You are not responsible for SAM, unless SAM says so, or I’ve told you so. You get that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just started paddling again, which elicited a broken cry from Dean. “We will go out on that course again tomorrow, and run it until you’re both exhausted. And let me impress upon you, little boy,” he said, punctuating his sentence with a couple of hard swats, “I am the one who is watching over Samuel. Got that?” A final pair of smacks, and he paused, hearing the barely audible, raspy “yessir,” that came from his boy. 

Hard lesson for Dean to learn, that one, but being distracted by Sam could mean his death on a hunt, and it was John’s job to train it out of him, starting with making sure the announcement of that fact was loud, clear, and memorable. His boys rarely made the same mistake twice, at least for things he’d punished them seriously for. A fleeting thought crossed his mind that he wished he could do the same for all the backtalk, but that wasn’t the way things worked these days, with mostly grown boys. Reaching down, he swept the boxers and jeans the rest of the way off Dean’s feet, from where they’d gotten kicked mostly off as John had spanked. He lifted Dean to his feet.

“Shower, and get in bed. I’ll bring you some water, and I don’t want to see you otherwise until morning.” He sat, exhausted, at the table, until the bathroom door shut. “Sam! Come here, please.” Sam emerged from the bedroom, eyes wide. The kid was still nervous, not that he blamed him, after listening to all or most of the spanking he’d just given Dean. He stood up as Sam reached him, and wanted to kick himself when Sam’s eyes hit the floor. “Have a seat, Sam, you need some food in you,” he said calmly, and pulled the covered dish out of the oven, placing it on the table. Sam was watching while trying not to look directly at him, and he decided he wouldn’t make an issue of it, just served the boy and put a cold glass of water in front of him, doing the same with his own plate.

“Talk to me.”

Sam’s face went red, and he toyed with his fork.

“You think I was too hard on him.”

“It’s my fault,” Sam mumbled. “This stupid…”

“No.” John’s voice was firm. “He’s responsible for himself. This doesn’t change anything, Sam. I don’t see it as any different than the time we had to retrain you after you broke your arm that time. I’m proud of you for coming up and telling me you had to quit – you can’t hold that back, this is more dangerous than pushing with broken muscles and bones.”

Sam looked startled, and ate a few more bites. John kept his silence, tucking away his own supper. Dean could do without, finish the lesson off. Swallowing the last bite of his own meal, he looked seriously at his youngest boy, who was still distractedly working on his plate.

“We’ll be back out there tomorrow, Sam, until we get it right. If you waited to say something today, I expect you to not wait tomorrow, understood?” His voice was calm, and Sam responded well to the kindness and understanding there.

“Yessir.”

“Good. Finish up there, and we’ll get some rest. Leave the dishes for morning.” He filled a glass with water, and walked back into the bedroom. Dean had taken the world’s fastest shower, no doubt even the touch of the water was painful. He set the glass by the bedside, and bent over to kiss the tousled hair. “Good night, son.” Dean made no reply, eyes heavy with sleep, and John let it pass, walking back out to the main room, and sliding the covers back on the bed there. He chased Sam in, ignoring the pleading look, and doused the lights except for the lamp next to the bed. Settling himself next to his boy, he picked up a demonology text, and laid his other hand on Sam’s shoulder, leaving it there. 

“Dad?”

“What is it, Sam.”

“Need little help, maybe.”

“No problem.” He set the text aside, and softly recited the words to the warding spell that Mathieu had taught them. The sound of his father’s voice was soothing for Sam, and comforted by the strong presence and the knowledge that he was safe, he dropped off to sleep quickly. John just smiled, and made sure Sam’d be warm enough until morning.


End file.
